


Teething Pains

by flightless_soren



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-08 23:20:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3227288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightless_soren/pseuds/flightless_soren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody likes to cry alone. End game spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teething Pains

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for an especially lovely prompt on the kink boards; Solas hasn't exactly had the easiest time. There's a point where it all gets to him, maybe after his spirit friend dies, and he breaks down into tears when he thinks he's alone. Somebody finds him and tries to offer him some comfort.
> 
> I finally found an excuse to write about that weird little library next to the kitchens too. And this turned out to be my first post on here, wahoo~

The Fade is meant to be a place of refuge, of safety and comfort, because dreams- memories- aren’t real, dreams can’t _hurt_ you. Its meant to be a place he can retreat into, when he realises everything in the outside world is far too real, taking hold of him in an icy grip that’s unrelenting. It didn’t used to be like this. It was simpler back then.  
  
When the calming ripples of the veil distort, when they shine more harshly and cracks appear deeper than before, when the rows and rows of accusing eyes and pointed ears turn to mock him, a solitary figures raising her hands as if offering up a prayer. Her skin is wrong. Posture wrong. Face wrong. Black and dripping like the tar pools in the waste lands, eyes punched out and dribbling down her cheeks.  
  
 _You could have done so much better._  
  
She reaches, stretching up to touch his face, to grab, force him to drown with her- before Solas wrenches his spirit out of the Fade, waking with a startled gasp and immediately choking on the stale air of the forgotten library. The dust slowly settles, as Solas further hunches over the age worn desk in the circular room, putting a shaking hand to his forehead and shutting his eyes tight.  
  
He can’t remember the last time he’s run from his dreams, or so forcefully pulled himself from one.  
  
Its not a technique he favours, as its a little like someone violently shaking you to get up. You’re not quite prepared for it, nor particularly want it to happen. It leaves you with a feeling of having missed a step going down, a startled emptiness that gives way to gradual sickness of not having let the natural waking process take its course.  
  
Solas curses quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose to try stop the headache surfacing, ignoring the hot pain building across his forehead and eyes.    
  
Its a stinging pain he’s not quite used to. One that has grown more frequently as of late, coming and going, each time his stomach reacts to it in tight knots until it feels like there’s a constant dead weight being carried around inside him.  
  
He knows he’s nearing some kind of snapping point.  
  
A certain point he’s been doing his best to avoid looking at for centuries now. Its almost kind of laughable really, that in all these years of quietly sitting on it, its only taken a few months of simple human interaction to bring it all forward again. Although nothing about them is simple. Not really. Everything is all _complicated_ , wound up tight like an infuriating tangled piece of yarn, and each time he pulls, it grows even more knotted.  
  
There’s an itch under his skin, and he fights the maddening urge to bite and rip parts of himself off- like disconnecting and tricking himself into thinking he’s less of a being, and more of a _thing_ , will help lessen the pain. Its not like it hasn’t helped in the past.  
  
Anyone with a shred of rationality would talk about it.  
  
Talk it out, maybe figure some sense into the situation, cry a little. All those _normal_ things.  
  
He refuses to show any weakness, even when he’s tucked himself away in the lowest part of the castle, hidden in the dusty old library nobody ever uses which is covered in cobwebs and all manner of creepy crawlies.  
  
Even if nobody sees, _he’ll_ know.  And he’s not sure he could ever live with himself if he does.  
  
Solas looks up, forcing his eyes to open wide, pretending the burning pain isn’t there, willing it to go away as he presses his steepled hands against his lips. For so long now he’s swaggered around thinking _he_ was a higher power.  
  
It’ll be fine, _it’ll be fine._  
  
He's good at tricking others. Good at tricking himself. Sometimes. Ignore the sharp stabs in his gut, the prickling behind his eyes, the slow burn of his heart crushing under the intense weight. If he repeats it enough times in his head, the lies becomes true.  
  
Who exactly, does a God pray to for guidance?  
  
“Solas?”  
  
The Inquisitor.  
  
The soft call disrupts his frantic thoughts, he gulps messily and manages not to jump. He starts weighing up his options on if he should turn around or not. To compromise, he closes his eyes instead, feeling the heaving atmosphere stretch and threaten to snap. _Don’t speak, its fine. He won’t know. Everything is. Fine._ The pressure of his fingernails digging into his palm almost draw blood.  
  
The curiously footfalls grow a little closer, sharp ears picking up the small rustles as the man brushes cobwebs from his face, carefully treading around old tomes and cracked pieces of priceless trinkets.  
  
“You know, I didn’t realise anyone else knew this place was here,” Soren starts, having noticed the sour air and trying to lighten it. “I remember stumbling into this place when the cook chased me one night, furiously wielding a mighty broomstick. Which, might I add, can hurt a great deal when aimed correctly. Ran all across the lower dungeons with him hot on my tail, that man just would _not_ give up. I finally managed to shake him loose when I locked myself in here. The spiders didn’t really appreciate my company though. So, lesson learnt, apparently tiny cakes are worth more than a reprimand from the Inquisitor. Ah. There you go, managed a bit of a smile there.”  
  
Solas realises he’s turned a little during the story, unconsciously drawn in by his light voice and twinkling eyes, unfortunately revealing his own watering ones and woebegone appearance. He quickly looks away, ears flicking back in a self conscious gesture. He doesn’t bother moving his hands to hide his face. No point now.  
  
“Now, why on Thedas is my beloved hedge mage hiding himself down here?”  
  
Solas doesn’t answer, still trying to decide if his company is desired or not. The room certainly feels a little. Easier to breath in.  
  
“Wait here.”  
  
Just a suddenly as he’s appeared, Soren vanishes, presenting Solas with the opportunity of getting up and running away. The warrior is crafty like that. He is all smiles and whimsical stories when the fancy takes him, but every move he makes is calculated and well thought out. It constantly catches not just their enemies, but his friends out as well.  
  
Its how he managed to survive all this time.  
  
Its, for all extent and purposes, how he managed to catch and keep Solas’s interest.  
  
While he debates, Soren returns a short while later, holding a small cup of something warm. When he realises what it is, Solas crinkles his nose in distaste. He speaks for the first time, feeling a moments victory of hearing his voice so calm and steady.  
  
“Tea. _Really._ ”  
  
“Oh, put your ears up. I keep telling you, you make it wrong.”  
  
“You can not make tea, _wrong_.”  
  
“Well, _hahren_ , in all your wise years of mastering the Fade, I’m afraid there will finally come a time when you swallow your elven pride, and admit you got something so simple, wrong.”  
  
He knows Soren is only taking about brewing tea.  
  
Yet that sentence still cuts with a hundreds years worth of weight.  
  
A moment of anguish must have betrayed his face - the fragile moment of companionship between them dissolving - as Soren quickly murmurs, _shhh you’ll be okay_ , before guiding Solas off the desk seat and onto the floor, as the chair is too small to fit two bodies. Soren sits next to him, wrapping a strong arm around his shoulder and draws him close, not thinking too much on how he just lets it all happen rather than shying away.  
  
He also tries not to think of the last time anything physical held him this securely. A comfort he’s gone so long without, its ironic that a simple act of human compassion be the thing that slowly pulls down all the walls he’s built up.  
  
Its kindness that breaks him, not solitude.  
  
A sadness, a kind that holds a strange kind of warmth, soothes out the tight coil in his stomach, a new pain that needs to consume the old hurt but not quite replace it, reminding him that its okay to acknowledge it. The ache inside him morns, remembers lives lost, and regretting actions taken. There’s nothing wrong with feeling sad. Or letting it consume you for a time.  
  
Soren rests his chin on top of Solas’s head, politely averting his eyes as he feels his shoulder steadily grow warmer. Scarcely a sound makes its past his lips, teeth locked together tight, but gradually gives way to hiccuping gasps and quiet whimpers of distress. Solas brings up a hand to shove the noises back. He can feel it, growing in the darkness, just out of the corner of his vision. Something black and horrible, opening its maw and threatening to swallow him whole. The intensity burns so hot across his nose and eyes, it feels like he’s seconds away from falling apart. The idea of loosing it that badly frightens him more than anything.  
  
“Stop that,” the voice manages to ground him, but not unkindly.  
  
Voice quivering slightly, probably just as startled as himself to see his dear friend crying, he removes Solas’s hand from covering his mouth and lightly holds it in his lap, brushing his thumb over each of his knuckles. The elf tries to form a protest, but he interrupts him. “And if you even try thinking you’re being a bother, I’ll start asking Sera for tips on catching lizards to surprise you again. This is normal, Solas. There isn't any shame in it.”  
  
How he does it, he'll never know. Managing to turn the situation into something lighter. Still addressing the problem, but. Showing him that hill isn't so high to climb, just take it one step at a time. That gets a shaky laugh, a few more, much more grateful, tears slide down his cheeks.  
  
The tight restraints on his chest lessen as the wet patch on Soren’s shoulder grows. He finds it easier to breath, the haze in his mind gradually lifting. The monster in the background quietly pads away.  
  
Soren rubs a calming hand across Solas’s trembling back, thinking that maybe if he presses hard enough he’ll shift just a fraction of the pain from his shoulders. Quietly, Soren starts to hum under his breath, a tune his mother used to sing whenever he had trouble falling asleep as a child. Gradually, Solas relaxes down, occasionally sniffing, sound muffled as if trying to be subtle it.  
  
“Feel better?”  
  
“I have a headache.”  
  
His pouting voice is thick and wobbly, accent so strong the warrior almost doesn't pick out the individual words.  
  
Soren chuckles, knowing all to well the annoying pains of a stress headache. Cupping Solas’s face, he turns it towards himself, using his sleeve to scrub his wet cheeks dry. The tips of Solas’s ears burn, not entirely used to being babied to this extent.  
  
“I had a feeling this may have been about your friend. But now I’m thinking that might not really be the case.”  
  
Solas tenses, not even trying to hide it this time. He can physically see the precipice rolling out before him. He’s at the very edge of it, looking down into the black abyss, watching it leer right back at him. Down there- he doesn’t know what may happen if he leaps down there. The act of telling Soren the truth. The elf never intended to trick the Inquisitor. He’d just left out the tiny factor of giving the orb to Corypheus in the first place. And left out slightly. Significantly _larger_ factors. Ones that concern entire populations of elves and Gods.  
  
They don’t need to know. That isn’t the _point_ of the Inquisition.  
  
What would they all do if they knew? Nothing. Nothing could be done, because it was _already done_.  
  
It all just. Happened. So fast. One event after the other, until it started gaining so much momentum, even he was having trouble keeping pace with it.  
  
Even now, he doesn’t know. He can’t see that side of the future. All he can do is recount the past.  
  
Behind him, is familiar and safe. All he needs to do is turn around and look back.  
  
“You’re right,” Solas sighs slightly, curling in on himself in an act of defeat. “I suppose I can’t hide it from you. Its just.”  
  
Soren waits, forgetting to breath for a moment.  
  
“The smell of that ungody tea had driven me to this point-”  
  
The warrior chokes, joining in a moment later as Solas starts to chuckle softly. “You-you cheeky old bastard, you _had me_ ,” he jabs the elf in the side, who waves him off sternly, eyes glittering. Reaching behind himself, Soren picks up the cup of tea he’s left on the desk, holding onto Solas more firmly as he tries to wriggle away.  
  
“Come now, it’s not that bad, its peppermint for Maker’s sake.”  
  
“It smells like week old, rotten grass clippings, you can’t make me.”  
  
“Okay, _now_ you’re just being an arse.”  
  
As they laugh and scuffle about, silent agreement settles between them. Solas comfortable in his decision for the moment, and Soren patient in letting him take as much time as he needs.


End file.
